


Summer at the End of Time

by scioscribe



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Between Lodges and Rooms, Damn Good Cherry Pie, Dream World, F/M, Pre-Twin Peaks: The Return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25499317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/pseuds/scioscribe
Summary: This is their summer, and everything is so drenched in sunshine that it feels like the world has soaked the light up like a sponge. When Cooper slides a blade of grass between his thumbs to whistle on it for her, it bleeds green against his skin, the color running like wet paint.It’s playing her song, the bassline all laced up in saddle shoes.
Relationships: Dale Cooper/Audrey Horne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31
Collections: Eat Drink and Make Merry 2020





	Summer at the End of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosedamask](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosedamask/gifts).



This is their summer, and everything is so drenched in sunshine that it feels like the world has soaked the light up like a sponge. When Cooper slides a blade of grass between his thumbs to whistle on it for her, it bleeds green against his skin, the color running like wet paint.

It’s playing her song, the bassline all laced up in saddle shoes.

“When I did this as a kid, you wouldn’t believe the shriek.” He sets the blade of grass down to the side, on their china-white picnic blanket—he’ll be able to find it again easily enough.

Audrey stretches out her legs, her bare feet in the yellow-green grass, a cluster of cloud-like yarrow against one ankle. Her face has its own glow, separate from the sun. “I didn’t used to like to walk in the grass. Like a thousand little sticky prickles all over my skin.”

“What changed?”

“I guess you make even the prickles feel good. Like here.” She undoes a line of buttons on her blouse and slips two fingers inside, tracing her collarbone. “How even sweating can feel like it’s just the drumroll before something big.”

He understands. She’s a creature of sensation. He remembers—and he thinks this is true, because there’s a density of truth here the way there’s a density of light—bringing her slowly to a climax, his mouth hot against her nipple and his hand barely tickling the triangle of dark hair between her legs, an ice cube slowly melting against her navel, sliding on cool tracks against her skin when her breathing quickened. It must have happened on some other summer day. This place is where all the sweetest June afternoons go when they die.

He has one day with her, every so often, and she has one with him. Other times, he’s elsewhere. They both are.

Somewhere indoors—but, strangely, with more birdsong.

“Audrey,” he says, lying back next to her and taking her hand in his, “how much do you remember about how we got here?”

“Always investigating, Special Agent.”

“That’s something we have in common.”

“I talked to her,” Audrey says simply. “She doesn’t make the rules, but we were always good at breaking them. It’s like summer vacation.” Her smile is wistful, and for a moment he can see another Audrey beside him on the blanket. This Audrey is bright amber and the other is a black opal dense with subsumed colors.

He’s never been one to say he knows what’s eternal and what’s only mortal. Whatever rules he was told, he’s forgotten them long ago.

He has this day with her. And it’s always her, whatever happens to them elsewhere. All flesh is grass, he won’t argue with that, but here the grass only ever plays her tune. He puts his thumb down against the blade he plucked and finds it's still there, like a promise that the day isn’t over.

Which is good, because they have this whole pie to themselves, and it would be a damn shame to waste it.

He finds the two forks, the ones he thinks are always theirs. They’re made of black wood and polished horn that could almost pass for pearl. He would like to know the significance of that. He’s sure of what the pie means—good pie only ever means pleasure, and he’s sure this one will beat the world for that. It’s one of Norma’s, the edges crimped in a way he recognizes as clearly as if there were fingerprints in the pastry. He puts the pie plate between them.

“I’m really starved,” Audrey says, and she tucks in, cherry juice staining her lips until they’re the reddest red in the world. “God, I think all I want in life is to feel the way cherry pie looks when you cut it.”

“Happy to be eaten?”

“Like Little Red Riding Hood making friends with the wolf. There’s just something so decadent about it.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” It’s sublime—the crust is flaky and still warm from the oven, but it’s still just a touch cooler than the filling, than the ruby juice painting Audrey’s mouth.

When he remembers to look for it, there’s vanilla ice cream, too, the way there always should be with cherry pie. It’s Audrey’s favorite brand, this kind, and he makes a note to remember that on the off chance he’s ever able to see the inside of a supermarket again. It’s a rich French vanilla, yellow like custard and perfectly chilled, and when it melts against the hot pie it’s pure heaven.

There are no ants here to swarm the sticky pie plate they leave behind as Audrey pulls him to his feet.

“Come on,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I know a place where the world ends. Time moves slower there.”

He follows her to the edge of the clearing. Ah, he can feel it too. The long grass looks almost blue in this new light, and it ripples like waves; this is the shore that all of time washes up on eventually, and he can smell the salt air all around them. They’re standing at the foot of a cherry tree in ecstatic bloom.

“That’s yours,” Audrey says, seeing where his gaze goes. “I think. I was never much for trees.”

She lies down, her glossy dark hair near the gnarled tree trunk—and two more different things in a glance there never were. She’s naked now, her skin looking white against the fallen cherries and the ocean of grass and a flushed pink against the silky blossoms. It seems like it would make an uneven bed, bumpier than any cut-rate motel mattress he’s ever been on, but as he lowers himself to her, he has no complaints. Everything’s right where it’s supposed to be, even the cherries rolling around between his fingers: a cluster of two, two, and two, a wild jackpot that’s cocktail bright. There’s a knotted stem between Audrey’s lips, and she’s laughing against his shoulder. He holds on to all of this, even knowing he won’t remember it until next time. He strokes her smooth skin and watches the sun rise up from her like vapor.


End file.
